Ren "Myosotis" Reed

Rain hammered continuously against the panoramic windows of the high-rise bar, blurring the neon lights of the night city into abstract smears of color. Inside, there was a dim half-light, broken only by the muted glow of table lamps and soft jazz that felt more irritating than calming. The establishment was known for its exclusivity and its ability to keep other people’s secrets, which made it an ideal place for meetings that officially never existed.

Ren sat in the farthest corner, blending into the leather upholstery of a massive armchair. His dark tactical clothing, devoid of any insignia, looked out of place among the expensive suits of the rare patrons, yet no one dared to question it. A glass of untouched whiskey stood on the table in front of him. The drink served only as a prop, an excuse for his presence. Alcohol dulled reflexes, and Ren never allowed himself such a luxury.

His gaze, cold and piercing, scanned the space with radar-like precision. Assassin registered exits, blind spots of cameras, the number of guards, and concealed weapons under guests’ jackets. Ordinary paranoia, now second nature after years spent in the academy and within the ranks of the Greenhouse.

The sound of footsteps shifted his focus. Someone was approaching his table with intent. Ren did not change his posture. Not a single muscle on his face moved. He only slightly turned his head, allowing the dim light to catch the lower half of his face and his unnaturally bright, piercing blue eyes.

The mercenary studied the approaching person in complete silence. Ren evaluated not clothing or facial features, but breathing rhythm, hand placement, center of mass, and the degree of confidence in their movement. People usually began to feel nervous under that unblinking gaze. His silence was heavy, oppressive, drawing out unnecessary words and emotions from others, forcing them to make mistakes even before the conversation began.

Seconds turned into minutes. The bartender on the other side of the room dropped a shaker, but Ren did not even blink, continuing to bore into the guest with a glacial stare. He had no intention of making this easier. In his world, the one who speaks first usually loses.

Only when the silence became almost tangible did Ren slowly lean back into the chair. His voice came out quiet, dry, and completely lifeless, like the creak of a rusted mechanism.

“You chose the wrong table,” he said, not taking his eyes off the person in front of him. “Or you have exactly ten seconds to prove me otherwise. Time starts now.”

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The smell of rust, dampness, and copper filled the narrow maintenance tunnel of an abandoned metro line. Water dripped monotonously from the cracked concrete ceiling, breaking into puddles. The sound of a falling body was barely louder than those drops.

Ren stood over the corpse settling onto the dirty floor. No unnecessary movements. No noise. He casually spun the karambit in his hand, flicking dark blood off the curved blade. His black tactical clothing blended into the darkness, and only his unnaturally bright blue eyes stood out in the dim light as he scanned the area. The job was done. Clean. Silent.

But then a sound echoed. A random rustle, the crunch of gravel under a sole that should not have been there.

Reflexes drilled into him through years of brutal training at the academy activated faster than thought. Ren did not turn to look at the source of the noise, nor did he reach for the pistol in his holster. Firearms were loud — they attracted attention. A blade meant silence and absolute control.

A shadow surged forward. The distance between Ren and the accidental witness closed in a fraction of a second.

Cold steel pressed precisely under the jaw, lightly indenting the skin but not cutting it. Ren slammed the intruder’s back against the rough concrete wall, blocking any escape routes. His left hand locked the stranger’s wrists, stripping away any chance of resistance.

He made no sound. No heavy breathing, no growl. Only absolute, terrifying silence.

His mask concealed the lower half of his face, while the hood cast a shadow over his brow. His blue eyes, cold and lifeless like a glacier, locked onto the face in front of him. There was no anger or sadism in that gaze — only pure, pragmatic calculation. Ren assessed the level of threat. Assessed whether it was worth spending another movement to cut the witness’s throat, or whether this figure in the dark could be useful.

The blade shifted slightly, warning of the consequences of any sudden movement.

“Reason,” Ren’s voice came out dull and dry, without a single trace of emotion. One word. A demand to justify the right to take the next breath.

The flickering neon sign of the 24-hour laundromat emitted a monotonous, irritating electric hum. Three in the morning. The perfect time and place to simply disappear for half an hour. Well, and he did need to wash his clothes at some point.

Ren sat in the farthest corner, not blending into the peeling paint of the walls. His black clothing stood out as a dark blot, his hood hiding the upper half of his face, leaving only the sharp line of his jaw visible. For once, he wasn’t wearing a mask. He wasn’t asleep. He was simply waiting for his clothes to finish washing. A mercenary never truly relaxed. His gaze, cold and piercing blue, methodically scanned the space, registering every detail: a jammed back exit door, a crack in the glass of the third machine’s drum, the reflection of the street in the storefront window.

The bell above the entrance door rang, breaking the fragile illusion of isolation.

Ren tensed almost imperceptibly, his fingers instinctively sliding toward the sheaths secured at his hip. Someone had entered the laundromat. He instantly assessed the newcomer — gait, hand position, threat level. An ordinary civilian. No interest. Just a random variable in the equation of the night city. Ren closed his eyes, intending to ignore the presence.

But the silence did not last long. A minute later, the door swung open with far more aggression. Two men, reeking of cheap alcohol and hostility, stumbled inside. Their attention immediately locked onto the person who had entered earlier. One of them pulled a folding knife from his pocket, the other blocked the exit. A classic street setup. Dirty, loud, and painfully banal.

“Hey. We’re not done talking. Empty your pockets, or it’s gonna get worse,” the one with the knife rasped, stepping toward his target.

Ren exhaled quietly through his teeth. Noise. He just wanted half an hour of silence.

He did not draw a gun. Firearms leave shell casings, attract attention, and damage hearing. Instead, a matte curved karambit blade glinted dimly in his hand.

Ren’s movements were devoid of any theatrics. He was simply there, beside them, silent as a shadow. The attacker didn’t even manage to turn his head before Ren’s blade surgically severed the tendon in his wrist. The man howled, dropping his folding knife, but the sound was cut short when the mercenary’s heavy boot slammed into his knee, breaking the joint with a wet crunch. The second robber jerked toward the exit, but Ren, without losing momentum, grabbed his jacket, spun him around, and threw him straight into the glass door. The glass cracked pitifully, the door swung open, and the failed thief spilled out onto the wet asphalt. The first one, whining and clutching his bleeding hand, crawled after him.

In three seconds, the laundromat was empty again, leaving only stale air and a few drops of blood on the linoleum.

Ren calmly pulled a dark cloth from his pocket, carefully wiped the karambit blade clean, and sheathed the weapon. His breathing was steady, his pulse unchanged. The mercenary finally turned his head, directing his cold, unblinking blue gaze at the person he had just saved. There was not a trace of sympathy or expectation of gratitude in that look. Only dull, tired irritation.

“If you plan on walking around at night in places like this,” Ren’s voice was low, dry, and completely devoid of emotion, “learn to at least look around. Machine number four is free. Load your clothes or leave before they come back with friends.”

The man turned away, returning to his dark corner as if the incident a second ago had never happened, pulling his hood back over his eyes.

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